The Queen's Rival (41 page)

“And indeed he has, Mistress Blount. I have been sent to see to the child’s christening. Your mother has called to court for Lady Exeter, your cousin, to come and stand as godmother. I have been appointed by His Highness as godfather.”

“When will the king be arriving?”

Wolsey’s lips tightened as if he were forcing back a smile. It was, she thought, an oddly cruel reaction as he balanced his chin on a jeweled finger. “I’m sorry, Mistress Blount, but His Highness will be unable to attend the christening, as he is quite occupied right now in dealings with complications over the betrothal of his daughter, the Princess Mary.”

Bess felt her own lip quiver, fending off tears. The king was giving in to the very world from which he had always sought to escape with Bess. As Wolsey stared unblinkingly at her in the echo of his announcement, she thought he was almost daring her to cry. But she was too proud.

“And the name the king has chosen for our son?” she asked, steadying her voice by squeezing her hands into fists hidden by the folds of her skirts.

“He is to be christened Lord Henry Fitzroy.”

She knew that Fitzroy meant “son of the king,” and Bess felt herself confused by the contradiction. Henry was going to bestow that dignity on their child, yet he could not be bothered to attend the christening to see his son, or her?

Anger, hurt, disappointment—all of the emotions wound themselves tightly around her heart then, squeezing tightly. Did Henry actually mean never to see this son he had so longed for? Was this grand honor given only in order to allay his sense of guilt?

“I see.” She struggled to respond, feeling that if she said more, the cardinal would actually see her heart breaking.

It was her own fault. She had been a fool. Bess knew that. She had meant to try to become a rival to a queen. This now, apparently, was her punishment—or at least a part of it. She could not bear just then to imagine what more might be in store for her.

Her family stood around her in the nave of the Chapel of St. Lawrence, a show of great support for a young woman who was weakened and wounded. But, for her son’s sake, she must not let it show. For him, she must learn swiftly how to survive this and thrive.

The vaulted nave was drafty even for July, and Bess felt herself shiver. She watched silently then, feeling helpless as Wolsey took the baby and held him gently over the baptismal font so that the prior could pour the warm oil on his head.

The chanted words echoed through the vaulted nave as she felt tears behind her eyes once again aching to fall.
You should be here
, she urged silently, angrily, to her son’s father.
You may not owe me anything, but you do owe him that.

Bess glanced over at Gil who stood beside Wolsey. Her friend was the second godfather to the king’s son. She studied him more intensely in that bittersweet moment than she had in a very long time. It surprised her to see pride so well-worn into his once-youthful expression, maturing his face, as he looked down at the child, silent, precious, and full of innocence in Wolsey’s arms. Bess had not understood it before this moment. She had never taken the time to see it. But Gil’s love for another man’s child was unconditional. The moment she realized it, she felt light-headed, as though she had been struck. It set her off balance, and for a moment she could think of nothing else.

After the service they went outside, and Bess was quickly warmed by the summer sun, and by the reassuring feel of her child back in her arms. This little boy was her lifeline no matter what else happened. He would keep her strong and make her heart safe again. She had every intention of doing the same for him. Bess gently brushed a finger across his cheek. In response, he opened his eyes, yawned, then looked up at her. He had impossibly wide, trusting eyes. From pain and disappointment, she thought, came enormous joy, and that would be enough.

The passage from John ran through her mind then, because she knew the baby, whom she intended to call Harry, was an example of absolute perfect love. She would protect that, and him, no matter the risk.

As Wolsey introduced George and their parents to the prior, Bess went to Gil who was standing alone near a splashing white stone fountain. It struck her symbolically as it had in the chapel that he was here once again for her, while Henry was not. This time the realization was even more profound than the last, and she felt everything shift. It was the right thing to do. She knew that now.

“Hold him?” she asked with a tentative little smile.

Without hesitating, Gil drew the baby back into his long arms and cradled him expertly within the reassuring folds of his puffed slashed silk and velvet sleeves. When he looked down at Bess, she said very softly and simply, “If there is still an offer, I would be honored to accept and to marry you.”

She would grow to love him in time, she told herself even as he gazed down at her with an easy, confident smile, as if he had known this was meant to happen all along. A real, secure, and loving family as she’d had was what was best for Harry—what was best for her as well. It was even what was best for the queen, who did not deserve an unfair advantage from the mother of the king’s son. It was best for Henry, too, that she bow out of his life.

At least, that was what she told herself as Gil pressed a tender kiss onto her cheek and smiled. “I thought you would never ask,” he said.

 

H
enry ultimately lost his bid to become Holy Roman Emperor. Like the legitimate heir he had so craved, this was the loss of yet another thing he desired but could not have. Instead of England’s king, in June of 1519 it was the queen’s own Spanish nephew, Charles, who was elected. The ruling powers that threatened England were now this new emperor, Charles V, and the new French king, François I. François had previously turned away from attempts at an exclusive English-French alliance, even the betrothal of their children, in favor of an alliance with this new young Spanish emperor.

Wolsey had convinced Henry that making peace with France or Spain now in order to keep England safe was more important than ever. Because he could not bear the thought of the rival who had beaten him, Henry chose to try once again to align himself with François. The cardinal’s intense negotiations at last led to a planned meeting between the two young rulers to be held near Calais. Henry’s bravado got in the way nearly as much as François’s did. For months, like two peacocks in a yard, the two sides leaked details about the grandeur they each planned to display to impress the other. In addition to vast pavilions and tents to house the events that would take place, the English court even brought a temporary palace constructed of timber and canvas. No amount of opulence was to be spared. But no matter how much Henry planned to spend on great lengths of costly gold cloth, jewels, jousts, and lavish banquets, the one thing he did not have was an heir to match the two that François and his queen had already produced. Adding insult to the injury of being rejected as Holy Roman Emperor the year before, Henry had been given the honor of being godfather to the French king’s second son.

It seemed to him a taunt that François had even named the boy Henry.

“But Your Highness does have a son,” Wolsey reminded him.

“For all the good the boy does for me, out there in the Lincolnshire countryside with Bess and that lad of yours she married.”

“Surely Your Highness recalls that the Tailbois family is a venerable one. A sound match was made for your son’s mother.”

“And what advantage does that bear me, given that I have never even seen the boy? How old is he now?”

“Lord Fitzroy is a year old next month, sire,” Wolsey answered calmly as the king’s agitation grew.

Henry cast down the pen with which he had been signing documents all morning, as a warming gold sun streamed in through the diamond-shaped panes of window glass, one ornamented prominently with a red Tudor rose. “I should see the boy,” he declared suddenly.

“Your Highness chose not to do so in the past, in order to give Lady Tailbois time and distance to settle into her new circumstances.”

Hearing the reminder, Henry laid his head back against the chair and sighed as he looked at the cardinal. “How is she, Thomas? How is she truly?”

“Gilbert writes to me that she is well, and expecting a second child.”

He tried not to feel the little wave of jealousy again, but, for a moment, it was impossible to press back. He had let her go, fully and completely, more than a year ago now, but that had not stopped him from missing her or thinking about her nearly every day since. Bess had always deserved better than what he could give her, and so he had forced himself to let her go and he would keep to that. Their son was another matter. The approaching summit made that more pressing at the moment.

Among the hundreds already slated to accompany the French king, no doubt François meant to parade his heir, and the son who bore his name, to Calais in order to taunt him. All along, Henry had planned for Katherine and Mary, his own sister, as well as Brandon and Wolsey, to join him, so why not
his
son? He had acknowledged the boy, named him, and dared to begin hoping a son of his might actually grow to manhood.

Little Henry might not be the queen’s progeny, he silently reasoned as he sat slump shouldered at his writing table, but he was a natural child, a boy, to hold up to François in less than a month’s time.

“I want to take him with me to Calais,” Henry firmly announced.

Wolsey paused, and for a moment it did not seem he was going to answer. “She and the boy are close, sire. I visit often, and I can see that she has been an extraordinarily devoted mother to him.”

“Then it is my turn to be a father to him.”

“But Your Highness, the queen and her retinue are to attend you in Calais.”

“My wife knows I have a son, Wolsey,” he said with an irritated snap.

“If you will forgive me, sire, oftentimes ’tis one thing to know something and quite another to be faced with it head-on.”

“Well, unlike the others, this son of mine is meant to survive, and the queen seems to be unable to produce any sort of competition, so I intend to bring my son into my life, and honor him as the rightful and acknowledged son of the king.”

“You would tear such a small boy away from his mother, sire?”

Henry rolled his eyes peevishly. “For a cleric, you have such an overly dramatic way of stating your case, Wolsey. . . . No, I do not intend that. At least not initially. The boy may return to Lincolnshire after Calais. Besides, from what you say, his mother is soon to be taken up with the birth of her next child. I would be granting Lord and Lady Tailbois a favor by giving them time with
their
child once it arrives.”

“If you truly intend to do this, sire, then I shall ride to Lincolnshire with you. It may make the transition a bit easier for the boy’s mother,” Wolsey carefully offered.

“Oh, I do not intend to go myself, not with Bess half gone already with her husband’s child. That would seem inconsiderate of me, as well as exceedingly awkward.” Henry pushed back his chair, stood, then walked slowly to the window, below which he could see the queen walking hand in hand through the knot garden with their four-year-old daughter, Mary.
If only you had been a son at last
, he thought of the little girl with her mother’s dark hair and strong features. It was that absence that plagued him, the void in his life that was coming ever strongly to define him. But, praise God, there was Henry Fitzroy now, tangible proof that he was not a failure. He
must
have that at any cost.

“I am not certain I should go in your stead, sire. The boy is yet small and accustomed to the care of a woman.”